


The Reconstruction

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Stays in Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Although I really don't suggest imitating Bilbo here, Aromantic Character, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fluff, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Multi, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesomes, aromantic dwalin, poly dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: Dwalin feels a bit left out, now that Bilbo and Thorin are together, even if a relationship was never something he wanted. Fortunately, he doesn't need to be in a relationship to be included, and Bilbo is determined to cheer him up. This fic consists of a smutty center with a soft wrapping of dwarven cultural differences and friendship in a Modern Middle Earth setting. Happy Hobbit Holiday, dear Kettish!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kettish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettish/gifts).



> This fic was betaed by the lovely mithrilbikini, because a poly fic needs a a polyshipper! Thank you Mith!

It had not escaped Bilbo’s notice that Dwalin was less cheerful than he used to be. His scowl was deeper and he wielded both his guns and his ceremonial axes with less… well... _fun_ than he used to do, as he shadowed Thorin around Erebor. If Dwalin had something of the demeanour of a storm cloud when Bilbo met him, then now he was a full-fledged thunderhead, glowering atop the peak of the Lonely Mountain.  
  
And yet, Bilbo thought, it was a strange thing for anyone to be less happy _now_. Erebor was reclaimed, the Lakemen were all settled in Dale, and the elves had mostly retreated to Mirkwood, after a lengthy but ultimately profitable peace process. So how on earth was it possible that Dwalin was more sour, more dour now than he had been whilst they were all four-wheeling their way across the continent, sleeping in tents, and failing to avoid skirmishes with the Orc tribes that still roamed the Wilderlands?

There was a lot of work to be done on the mountain, to be sure, and there were certainly many things to _complain_ about. After over a century of occupation by dragon, it went without saying that the infrastructure was in shambles, and Bilbo personally was pulling his hair out over the impossibility of getting any mobile signal without leaving the mountain, when he had family wondering if he was dead back in the Shire. And of course, leaving the mountain was dreadful, because first of all, you had to actually get from whatever level you were on to the gate without the help of escalators, elevators, or any kind of technological convenience—again, the infrastructure was in shambles. And then, once you got to the gate, sweating and panting from climbing however many storeys’ worth of stairs, actually leaving the mountain quite forcibly reminded a body that it was winter, and moreover, that it was the cruel northeastern winter to which Bilbo was wholly unaccustomed.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, Eru forbid anyone had to go farther than the gate. The all-terrain vehicles they’d been gifted by the Mayor of Laketown had rather predictably been demolished along with so many other things in the battle, and the roads between Erebor and Dale had long-since fallen into disuse after Smaug. They were impassable, in the snow and ice, without anything less than a tank, really. He wasn’t entirely sure how the dwarves of Ered Luin were planning to get here, since the long abandonment of this area also meant a near total lack of train routes and airports.

Yes, thought Bilbo, his knees aching as he climbed up to the royal apartments at the end of another long day of reconstruction. There certainly was a lot to complain about. But generally, it seemed to him that in spite of all of the very evident inconveniences that decorated daily life in Erebor, there was also an aura of irrepressible joy that suffused their company, that even extended to those dwarves of the Iron Mountains who had stayed, under Dáin’s leadership, to help with the restoration. Erebor belonged to Durin’s folk again. Families once sundered were due to be reunited. Treasures long forgotten were being reclaimed (and catalogued, by the small contingent of dwarven historians and archaeologists that had already arrived). The mountain was full of the energy of _doing_ , and one day soon, all of that doing would mean repaired electrical systems instead of shoddy generators, functioning elevators, and perhaps even more modern forms of public transport. And of course, subterranean mobile telephony.

The future seemed limitless.

The future also seemed more meaningful, especially amongst Thorin’s small company. They’d become closer, over the course of their quest—how could they not? A nightmarish camping trip with the routine threat of violent death hanging over their heads had cultivated a certain closeness amongst all the company and among some an even, well…. closer closeness. The future meant more to Bilbo than it ever had done before. Of everything they’d accomplished on their journey, one of the most important things was that Bilbo and Thorin had found each other, and had a future to build together now.

Perhaps that was it, mused Bilbo. Dwalin hadn’t found anyone the same way he and Thorin had done, the same way Fíli and Ori seemed to have taken to each other. Perhaps he was feeling lonely. Bilbo mentally flashed back to attending every single one of his cousin’s weddings as a bachelor, and made a note to bake Dwalin a cake. And invite him out for coffee. Perhaps without Thorin. Or with Thorin. He’d figure it out.

—

Inviting Dwalin out for coffee turned out to be considerably more difficult than Bilbo had first anticipated. Bilbo had run into him in the royal quarters, both of them on their way to a well-earned rest, and decided to take the opportunity that had presented itself, without giving it too much thought.

“Coffee tomorrow?” asked Bilbo, in the most harmless voice he had. “You look like you could use a break, certainly know I could.”

“Oh and in what café then?” replied Dwalin, radiating ill humour. “The one on top of the rubble, or the one down by the derelict mine shaft?”

Bilbo had fidgeted uncomfortably, even as he said, “Well there are some cooking stalls in the old markets, and Dáin’s lot did bring some coffee rations. I mean I certainly wasn’t expecting a proper latte….”

And there the offer had withered, under Dwalin’s uncompromising gaze.

“Didn’t know you were such a connoisseur of the stuff,” said Bilbo eventually, with a forced airiness. “Shan’t be making that mistake again.

Dwalin didn’t reply. Bilbo left him where he stood.  
  
—

When Bilbo finally arrived at the rooms he shared with Thorin, he found his beloved already there. In fact, Thorin was pacing in front of the fireplace, rehearsing some sort of speech he was supposed to give tomorrow about plans for the new government. Erebor was, after all, a modern monarchy, a constitutional monarchy—or so it had been under Thrór, and so Thorin meant it to continue. He’d done the guerilla work of getting Erebor _back_ , true, but from here on out Bilbo hoped Thorin’s royal duties would be considerably more _symbolic_. Fewer dragons, at any rate.

“Give it here, love,” said Bilbo by way of greeting, holding his hand out for the tablet Thorin was reading off. “I’ll have a look over it, give it a few tweaks. It’s possible to practice too much, you know.”

Thorin surrendered the tablet, glowering a bit, but underneath the glower was a fondness in his gaze that made Bilbo’s heart do little flip-flops in his chest. “Do whatever you think is best,” said Thorin, and there were the flip-flops again. To have earned the trust of a king was quite something, and whilst Bilbo didn’t think he’d ever really get used to it, he nonetheless curled up on the divan with the speech, and patted the cushion next to him. Thorin joined him, humming a soft song as Bilbo worked, stroking the soft hairs on Bilbo’s feet.

Bilbo did his damnedest to focus on the speech, he really did. But there was only so much foot-hair-stroking a hobbit in the prime of his life could take, and Thorin knew it, and it was his own fault if Bilbo set the tablet aside a little less carefully than he ought to have done, with fewer edits to the speech than he meant to have made, and proceeded to tackle the King of Erebor with kisses.  
  
—

“I’m worried about Dwalin,” Bilbo finally managed to say, over breakfast the next morning. “He seems…” Bilbo paused, knife in the air, the roll he was buttering suddenly an object of deep contemplation. “It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and he’s angry about it, when all the rest of us are up to the tips of our ears with the reconstruction.”

“Your ears may have tips…” growled Thorin.

“You know what I meant,” said Bilbo, shoving the buttered roll directly into Thorin’s mouth.  
  
Thorin chomped on the roll in agreement. Then swallowed. Then took a long sip of his coffee. Thorin’s ability to withstand subpar coffee for the sake of the caffeine alone was clearly superior to Dwalin’s.

“I expect,” said Thorin rather slowly and carefully, once he had downed his coffee, “that Dwalin feels a bit left out of things.”

“Well I don’t understand how that could be,” said Bilbo. “He’s captain of your personal guard. He couldn’t possibly be more in the middle of things.”  
  
Thorin arched an eyebrow at him meaningfully.  
  
Bilbo blushed.  
  
Thorin blushed. His eyebrow retreated, and he coughed a little awkwardly. “You do know that…” began Thorin, and then the words trailed off into nothingness.

“Know what?”

“Dwalin and I… well we were young at the time, and neither of us had found anyone…”

“You used to date,” said Bilbo flatly, finishing Thorin’s sentence for him.

“I wouldn’t say ‘date,’” said Thorin.

“Just sex then,” said Bilbo, who was beginning to feel a little cross, and didn’t mind letting it show in the snip-snap of his words.

“It’s different for dwarves,” protested Thorin. Bilbo rolled his eyes. “It is, and you know it.”

Bilbo took a deep breath. “You’ve explained some of it.”

“All dwarves value meaningful work,” Thorin began. “And many dwarves are perfectly content to focus on that work, to make their crafts the basis of a rich and full life with friends and family, without getting married, without having children. And we honour this. They give so much to the rest of us, through their work.”

Bilbo nodded. This much, he’d heard before, in response to some of his incredulous and naïve questions when he’d first been getting to know Thorin’s Company, in those early days on the road. In fact, almost exactly in those words.  
  
Thorin continued. “Dwalin’s like that. Dwalin loves nothing better than his craft, violent though it often is,” said Thorin. “Whereas I’ve always wanted, well, to find someone I would love as much as my craft, more than my craft.” He softened a bit, his eyes looking Bilbo up and down, his hand reaching out to cover Bilbo’s on the table. “I’ve wanted to find someone to love in a way that would give my craft some kind of meaning beyond my duty to my people.”

Bilbo had gone from eye-rolling to going all melty in the span of a minute. Thorin could do that to him.

“I said that we honour dwarves like Dwalin,” continued Thorin, gazing at Bilbo the whole time, his face suffused with light as he spoke, a light that banished any traces of Bilbo’s earlier rush of anger. “But that doesn’t really… A life like Dwalin’s is uncomplicated, it’s… it’s driven by a pure and singular sense of purpose. A lot of us envy that. When the years passed and I didn’t find anyone, I wished I could be like him. I wished I could find joy in my craft for craft’s sake alone. But I couldn’t, and I was lonely sometimes. And I’m not ashamed to say that Dwalin and I enjoyed each other when we could. There’s no shame, for a dwarf, in wanting sex—or in not wanting it either. In caring for one’s body, in enjoying it the way it wants to be enjoyed, in sharing that pleasure with friends.”

Bilbo nodded, letting Thorin’s speech settle in his heart, in his stomach. They sat there, heavy, and Bilbo breathed quietly, trying to find the right words, even as he observed, inwardly, that one very pleasant thing about dwarves was that, unlike hobbits, they often actually gave other people the _time_ to find the right words.

“I do sometimes forget, how different your people are,” said Bilbo, when he thought he had something to say that was at least adequate. “Every time I think I’ve got used to you, that I understand you, something new comes up that reminds me of how much I still have to learn.” He took a deep breath. “And I’ll never stop being grateful that you’ve let me in, Thorin, that you give me the chance to learn.”

“But you might’ve told me about you and Dwalin just a bit sooner!” added Bilbo sharply, swatting his beloved on the arm.  
  
Thorin laughed, sheepishly, and pelted Bilbo with a roll that, fortunately, hadn’t been buttered yet.  
  
—

Thorin might have expected, as a result of this conversation, that Bilbo would stop worrying about Dwalin, now that he knew what Dwalin wanted out of life. However, precisely because he now had some understanding of his loneliness, Bilbo was in fact filled with a determination to alleviate it however he could. He was entirely too familiar with loneliness from his isolated life in Hobbiton, and he was rather disinclined to subject anyone else to it, if it were in his power to do otherwise.

And so, Bilbo’s next attempt to invite Dwalin for coffee was somewhat more successful.

“I know there aren’t any cafés in Erebor,” he said the next time he saw Dwalin, without even a hello. “Not yet. You lot’ll have ‘em up sooner than I’m sure I can imagine, but they aren’t there yet. Still. I can make coffee myself perfectly well, and Thorin’s actually got a cache of wine as a peace-offering from Thranduil, if you’d rather that.”  
  
Dwalin stared him down again, almost daring him to finish the invitation.

“So please. Come over for coffee. With Thorin. And me, I’ll be there too. But mostly with Thorin.”  
  
Dwalin continued to stare. Bilbo continued to talk.

“Thorin told me, you see. About you, and him. And I think, you know, it’s not fair really, that you don’t get to spend as much time together now.”  
  
Dwalin blinked. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, laddie?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting, honestly.”

“Tomorrow evening alright then?” asked Dwalin.

Bilbo blinked. “Sure, yes… sure.”

And that was that.

—

Bilbo told Thorin the next day at breakfast that Dwalin would be coming over for coffee in the evening. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he’d deliberately held off on the news for a time when Thorin wouldn’t overthink it, and indeed, Thorin barely seemed to give it any thought at all, just grunting an “alright then,” as he dug into a plate of sausage. Bilbo did his level best not to overthink things either, throwing himself into some speechwriting at first, and then when that didn’t work, scrounging up the ingredients required for some kind of cake (a tricky thing, with supplies being what they were), and finally, actually baking the cake.

They had to be alright, he thought, if they had coffee, and cake, and an emergency case of Thranduil’s best. No evening could go so awry that cake couldn’t fix it.

And yet, Bilbo had never been so grateful in his life for a lack of internet, because otherwise, he knew, he’d have been typing all manner of terrifying things like “how do I have coffee with my boyfriend’s ex?” and “threesome etiquette” into the search box and really, it was better to be baking a cake and, if he really must overthink this, to be thinking about the situation at hand, and the people actually involved, rather than anything more abstract and thus more unnerving.

He liked Dwalin, after all. And he loved Thorin. And that should, in theory, make everything really very simple.

—

Bilbo had just finished setting out everything on the table when Thorin arrived home, Dwalin in tow. Thorin was his usual self at the end of the day: fatigue from all the work done, cheer at coming home, and a slightly more specific cheer at coming home to his home in Erebor. All of those expressions quietly played across his face as he greeted Bilbo with a kiss and a brush of their foreheads. Dwalin was more subdued, but his eyes took in everything silently, the same way he assessed an enemy—and Bilbo was more than a little pleased to note his eyes widen at the cake, a tactic that had plainly disarmed him.

“Sit down,” said Bilbo, gesturing at the table and chairs, suddenly conscious of how rude it was to keep a guest standing. “And please, Dwalin, help yourself to whatever you’d like.  
  
Dwalin smirked at that. “There’s a great many things I’d like, lad,” he said, pulling out a chair to sit, with Thorin next to him and Bilbo opposite. “But I’ll settle for whatever coffee we can get.” He poured himself a cup, more gracefully than Bilbo would’ve ever imagined when he first met Dwalin, and then passed the pot across the table to Bilbo. “And I suppose the company’s not so bad.”

“About that,” said Bilbo, whose hands were shaking a bit as he tried to pick up the coffee pot. “I think if we can… we’d like to be better company to you than we have been this last little while.”  
  
Thorin blinked in confusion, even as he reached out automatically to steady Bilbo’s hands.

“You said it yourself Thorin,” pressed on Bilbo with some determination. “You said that it’s different for dwarves and there’s no shame in people, ahem, enjoying each other. Or cake. Possibly we could just enjoy cake. It’s quite good cake, if I do say so myself.”

“Save the cake,” said Dwalin, who picked up the coffee pot from under Thorin and Bilbo’s hands, and poured the flustered hobbit a cup. “We’ll need it for afters.” He set the coffee pot down, and then took one of Thorin’s hands in both of his, squeezing them tight. “I’m not sure what you told Bilbo, Thorin, and I’m not sure what it is you might be wanting,” said Dwalin. “For me, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss a bit of playing around with you, but you’ve got Bilbo now, and maybe you don’t want anyone else. And I can hardly be jealous of you finding someone, not when we both know it’s something I never really wanted.”  
  
Thorin squeezed Dwalin’s hand in return.

“But if you did want to continue the, uh, playing around, I’d hardly be sorry about it,” finished Dwalin. “And Bilbo’s one of us now.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo softly. “It really is just that simple, isn’t it.”

“It can be, laddie,” said Dwalin with a curt nod of his head. “Thorin, what do you say?”  
  
Thorin looked nervously at Bilbo. “You are the treasure of my heart,” he said solemnly. “You know that, yes?”

Bilbo flushed a bit, and nodded.  
  
Thorin poured himself a cup of coffee, and then drained it in one go. “Then let’s keep each other better company.”

—

They decamped to the bedroom shortly thereafter. The generators which powered the royal suites were sad, wheezing things, so the lights were low—but if anything, that suited the situation. Nervous energy filled the bedroom, radiating from all three of them—eager, tentative, careful of each other. Dwalin took the lead, which Bilbo found himself grateful for, slowly unbuttoning his uniform jacket and the shirt underneath it in an unhurried, unworried way that Bilbo quickly began to find rather appealing. Thorin watched avidly, his own enjoyment of Dwalin’s performance quiet but appreciative, his eyes bright with lust.  
  
Dwalin tilted his head, and gave Bilbo a look; Bilbo got the message, and went over to Thorin, wrapping as much of his arms around Thorin’s thick torso as he could, and nuzzling up against him, continuing to watch Dwalin with a curiosity that sharpened with every inch of well-muscled, tattooed flesh that he exposed. His fingers made themselves busy though, unbuttoning Thorin’s suit jacket, and nimbly undoing the buttons of the fine blue dress shirt beneath. Soon, both Thorin and Dwalin were sliding off their jackets and shirts, neither of them particularly self-conscious, and Bilbo took a step back. He watched with a pounding heart and a curious twist in his stomach as Thorin and Dwalin approached each other and then met in a kiss, deep and long, with an aching familiarity born of an acquaintance longer than a hobbit’s lifespan.

Some of what Bilbo felt was awe, surely. Some of it was lust. There was a little pang of jealousy there, but as soon as he could register it, Thorin was turning to him, eyes full of desire and concern, and scooping _him_ up into a kiss as Dwalin began to help him undress.

“It’s poor form, don’t you know Bilbo?” he teased. “Can’t be the only one with clothes on.”

“No I really can’t, can I,” said Bilbo, who was unbuttoning his trousers and paused to be a little daring and lay a hand flirtatiously on Dwalin’s bare chest—a move that made Thorin’s eyes go wide and dark with a rush of unexpected lust. Bilbo pressed further, moving his hand down Dwalin’s stomach to the his increasingly strained trousers. “But I wouldn’t really know the etiquette for these things,” commented Bilbo, aiming his widest gaze up at Dwalin, letting him read the building desire there, the sense of adventure that had brought him here in the first place. “I’ve ever actually done this sort of thing before with more than one person at a time.”

Dwalin growled, and pulled Bilbo closer, making quick work of both their trousers so that they were crushed naked against each other. Then Dwalin turned Bilbo around in his arms, so that they were pressed front to back, and so that Thorin could see them both, Bilbo especially, see Bilbo’s rapidly thickening and hardening cock. “Will you show me what he likes, your majesty?” asked Dwalin, running his hands up and down Bilbo’s pale, downy chest, pausing here and there to tweak a nipple and make Bilbo writhe in his arms.

“With pleasure,” said Thorin, who dropped to his knees. “Hobbits are famous, you know, for their appetites, but it turns out this one rather likes to be devoured.” Bilbo’s cock was thick and hung heavy between his thighs—larger than might have been expected for his size—but Thorin was both greedy and experienced, and he swallowed it to the root nearly in one go.

“Show-off,” moaned Bilbo, and that was the last thing he said before Thorin’s skilful tongue put an end to any remaining words. Dwalin propped him up, as Thorin sucked, and licked, one hand toying with his balls, the other working the shaft. Bilbo writhed in pleasure, his hands twining in Thorin’s hair, his hips instinctively beginning to thrust into Thorin’s mouth. But as lost as Bilbo was in Thorin’s attentions, at the same time he had a growing awareness that his every movement couldn’t help but rub against Dwalin as well, and soon Dwalin was not just supporting him, but actively rutting up against his lower back, his prick short and study, as hard and fierce as everything else about Dwalin, and he was writing his desire in little slick trails over Bilbo’s skin.

The sensation from both sides was overwhelming, and with the novelty of the situation, how very incredibly hot it was to have Thorin’s mouth wrapped around him, and to be sharing this all with Dwalin, had him tightening his hands in Thorin’s hair as he fought to hold off his climax just a bit longer. “Please,” he moaned brokenly, “you have to stop.” But Thorin looked up from where he knelt, pure mischief in his eyes, and he only sucked harder, slipping a finger between Bilbo’s legs to press against his arse. Bilbo surrendered then and there, coming with a hoarse cry as he slumped against Dwalin and Thorin patiently suckled him through it, placing a gentle kiss to his softening penis as he withdrew and knelt back on the carpets, looking up at Dwalin.

“The things you do,” muttered Dwalin, affectionate, irritated, and plainly aroused all at the same time. Dwalin helped Bilbo onto the bed, and Thorin followed them up there.

“I never seem to recall you minding before,” retorted Thorin.

“I don’t,” said Dwalin. “But I have every intention of taking advantage of them.” Bilbo, through his half-lidded eyes, saw Dwalin grin wide, all teeth and desire. He gave Thorin a light, playful push, and Thorin landed rather artfully on all fours, so that he was hovering over Bilbo. Bilbo reached up a shaky hand to brush Thorin’s long braided hair over his shoulder, and tuck it behind his ear, and Thorin leaned down to kiss him, even as Dwalin reached around and gave Thorin’s cock a few sharp tugs. Bilbo swallowed down Thorin’s moans, even as Dwalin splayed a hand over Thorin’s arse, dipping his fingers between the cheeks.

“I don’t suppose there’s any lube in this blasted mountain is there,” said Dwalin, but Bilbo stretched an arm over to the bedside drawer to pull out a tube and fling it aimlessly in Dwalin’s direction. “Brilliant,” said Dwalin, who somehow managed to catch it anyway. He slicked his fingers and then went single-mindedly back to Thorin’s arse. Bilbo couldn’t see what Dwalin was doing exactly with his fingers, but Thorin was very obviously enjoying it. His already-hard cock bobbed , and he fucked himself back onto Dwalin’s fingers whilst Bilbo, still recovering, stroked his chest, played with his pierced nipples, and eventually, as he became a bit more coordinated, began to stroke his cock.

“You beautiful, majestic sod,” murmured Bilbo, brushing one finger of his other hand against Thorin’s lips, and giving it to him to suck on even as Dwalin worked two or three fingers in and out of him with slowly increasing speed. “I love you so much, and I am going to love watching Dwalin fuck you.”

“Oh is that what you wanted, laddie,” said Dwalin. “You might’ve said sooner.” He chuckled softly even as he withdrew his fingers, wiping them haphazardly on the fur of Thorin’s thigh, and lined his cock up. Bilbo laughed too, even as his cock was beginning to take a renewed interest in the proceedings, and Thorin might have joined them, were he not rendered speechless by the bold thrust of Dwalin’s cock inside him.

“I suppose that is what I wanted,” mused Bilbo, withdrawing his fingers from Thorin’s mouth so he could stroke himself with one hand, and Thorin with the other. “Wanted to see and feel it with him.”

“Should have him fucking you while I’m fucking him,” said Dwalin.

“Next time,” moaned Bilbo. Thorin moaned too, and this time Bilbo arched his neck up to kiss him, their kiss matching the rhythm of Dwalin’s relentless motion. They fell into it together, all three of them, with Bilbo stroking and kissing Thorin, and Thorin rocking his hips back into Dwalin, and Dwalin half-collapsing over Thorin, his powerful hips and thighs doing most of the work as his mouth covered Thorin’s back with little pink nibbles and his strong, thick fingers dug into Thorin’s ribs to hold on.  
  
Thorin came first, and it really was a testament to dwarven endurance that he lasted so long with Dwalin on top of him and Bilbo underneath, both of them so devastatingly familiar with his body, and both of them committed wholeheartedly to his pleasure. He came hard, panting against Bilbo’s shoulder, clawing at the sheets as he striped Bilbo’s chest with his come. Dwalin reacted to the feel of Thorin, the rhythm changing for all of them. Bilbo tipped over the edge at the sight of Thorin, his beautiful face twisted in ecstasy, the feel of his beloved’s warm seed pooling on his belly, and soon he was coming again, adding to the mess even as Dwalin drove his hips in harder and harder until he stilled, and the three of them lay tangled in a mess of sweat and semen, bathed in the flickering light of a bare bulb.

—

They did have the cake, for afters, once they had pried themselves off each other. The coffee had gone cold (a “tragic waste,” said Bilbo), but they were more in the mood for a bit of wine by then, anyway. Then Dwalin was seeing himself out the door, and while Thorin gave him a kiss, Bilbo saw him out since Thorin was, understandably, a little more sore than they were.

Just as they were finished exchanging pleasantries, when Dwalin had his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Bilbo and said, ever so quietly: “I won’t hold it against you if the answer’s ‘no,’ but you mentioned a next time, back in the middle of things. Did you mean that?”

“Well,” said Bilbo, with a little shake of his head and a crooked smile. “I don’t think any of us have the energy for this every day, but I’m sure we can arrange for this to happen at least a few more times.”

“Good,” said Dwalin, who breathed out and adjusted the set of his shoulders, letting out a tension that he himself didn’t seem to realise had been lingering. “Good.”

~fin~


End file.
